


A Friend In Need

by BloodLunacy



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, I think it is now anyways, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, We Die Like Men, also, also also, but be warned, discussion of suicide, idk how tagging works if you can't tell, it's more alluded to than anything, lots of swearing and gore, male hunter - Freeform, no editing or beta reading or anything, no homophobia tho fuck that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:55:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21677122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodLunacy/pseuds/BloodLunacy
Summary: A Hunter... was that all he ever was? A Hunter? He knew he must've had a life before this hell. He knew there was a reason he was here. He knew the faces in the locket smiling at him were waiting for him somewhere. But his only memories were of death, screams, and blood.The last of the Executioners knew the pain too well, and wants only to be the light in someone else's night just as his master was for him.
Relationships: Alfred/The Hunter (Bloodborne)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 124





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. You know how I have the tag 'no editing'? Well, guess who decided to sit down and edit all of my current chapters? Sorry, I'm a filthy liar, I know, but hey, now the Hunter has more character!

A fetid mist rolled over the cobblestones, stained with coagulating blood. Corpses of infected townspeople littered the ground, made into feasts for the obese crows. The Hunter meandered through the winding streets of the Yharnam, empty now of all beasts thanks to his efforts, his axe propped against his shoulder. He had long since stopped caring about the stench of blood that always lingered on his clothes.

Hell, sometimes, the smell would almost be pleasant. Enticing, even. He tried not to think about that too hard. Which, after killing Father Gascoigne, was becoming harder and harder.

The Hunter knew next to nothing about Gascoigne, except that the towering man was a hunter just like him. Was an outsider like him. Used the same weapons as him. Had the same purpose as him. Maybe even had the same fate as him. After all, with each kill, the Hunter became more and more comfortable with blood. When he first picked up the ax and struck the first blow, he nearly vomited from the stench and horror of the act. He swore he would never lose himself in the bloodlust like those before him, that he would only kill when absolutely necessary, that he would never grow apathetic. He just had to survive the night, find something called Paleblood, and then the nightmare would be behind him. And he could rediscover his past.

When he awoke from the blood transfusion he only vaguely remembered consenting to, he had absolutely no memories prior to the ministration. His name, his family, his home, all of it was lost. He had searched his person to see if there was anything to indicate who he was other than a hunter, but he found only a locket.

It was simple, really. Plain, gold, no fancy filigree or braided chain. Upon opening it, he was greeted with black and white portraits of two smiling faces, one on each side. One was a lady, with dark curly hair and bright, pale eyes. Her smile was warm and welcoming- he could only imagine just how happy she would have to be to hold that grin long enough for the artist to capture it. The other was a man, dark skinned, black hair and eyes, and a kindly face. They both looked to be in their thirties, perhaps, not much older than he. Looking at them, the Hunter was filled both with heartache and nostalgia, but he hadn't the slightest clue who they were.

Still, when his spirits sank, or he became overwhelmed with the emotional toll of the hunt, he would open the locket to gaze upon those handsome faces. He would imagine returning home, wherever that was, to be greeted by them. They would be so happy to see him again, crying with joy at his return. Oh, they would hug him and hold him, only letting go to tell him of all the things he had forgotten. They would make sure that the first thing he remembered was how it is to be truly, unconditionally loved. He just had to survive the night, and he would see them again, he told himself. Despite knowing nothing of his home or who these people were, he was determined to see the hunt through to the end if it meant he could be reunited with these two, with the keys to his past.

But the night was far from over.

Already, inexplicably, the night felt as though it had lasted a full day. The Hunter, despite not feeling the need for sleep, still knew damn well that there was no way he could have accomplished so much and died so often in the course of only a few hours. He wished someone, anyone would give him answers, but even Gerhman grew quickly weary of his insistent questions. 

“Just go out and kill a few beasts; it’s for your own good. You know, it’s just what Hunters do! You’ll get used to it.”

And that was the only definitive answer he had ever gotten about the nature of the hunt, and likely the only answer he was going to receive. 

All of the unknowns, god, they could drive a man mad. He tried, really, not to think too hard about all of this, but how was he supposed to remain content in ignorance when he was slaughtering massive wolf like creatures that were once men like him? When he could die and be reborn over and over again? _When he didn’t even know his own name?_

The moon was not yet even at its zenith in the sky, but the Hunter knew that, were it not for the promise of a life beyond this nightmare, he would have absolutely lost all grip on reality. Perhaps he already had, and this was all some elaborate illusion? 

One could only hope.

No matter, whether it was a hallucination, nightmare, or reality, the Hunter still had little choice. He had to keep moving, keep searching for this, this Paleblood. And surely, such information would be kept in the cathedral? Well, that’s where the kindly foreigner Gilbert directed him, so that being his only lead, the Hunter pressed on. 

After dying and resurrecting innumerable times, the Hunter finally made it to the Grand Cathedral. He was both perplexed and relieved when he heard the gentle prayers of a woman echoing in the otherwise empty cathedral, breathing a sigh of relief. Maybe he wouldn't have to battle anymore massive, grotesque monsters like the Cleric Beast or Father Gascoigne again. He eagerly climbed the massive staircase, seeing a cloaked woman kneeling in the center of the church. He hardly took in the beautiful, intricate detailing in the architecture, the massive, lifelike statues, and looming windows that let in the moonlight, instead dashing straight for the lady, hoping she too was sane. Given she was coherently praying, he felt it was safe to assume she was normal. 

"Miss!" he called, not wanting to startle her with his sudden appearance.

Perhaps shouting in an otherwise peaceful environment wasn't the best plan for keeping from scaring the poor lady, as she jumped to her feet and whirled around to face the Hunter, the fear evident on her face. Still, he thought the fear would evaporate once she saw he was a hunter, that she might even be grateful, ask for safety or give him help or express gratitude at his help- but with each step, she grew more and more frantic, stumbling away from him. She was breathing heavily, pulling her tattered cloak tighter around her shoulders. Sweat beaded on her forehead, her face pale and her skin almost waxy looking.

Panic shot through the Hunter's heart- oh gods, was she sick? Hurt? He went to rush forward to assess the damage and offer his help, but the terror in her eyes stopped him dead in his tracks.

"No, no please, get back," she gasped.

As if he already knew her, her name suddenly echoed in his mind- Vicar Amelia. Had he met her before? No matter, she needed help, he would worry about the details later. "Sister Amelia, please, are you okay? What's wrong?"

"I- I can feel my flesh succumb to the blood," she groaned. "Please, leave, I don't know- dear gods," she fell to her knees, her words cut off by deep growls and whines. Her muscles contorted from the agony, gasping for air, tearing at her throat, so desperate for air that she tore chunks out of her own flesh.

The Hunter's stomach turned and it took all his power to swallow back the vomit. His mind screamed at him to run, run, _RUN,_ but his bones and muscles turned to stone. He couldn't move, couldn't even avert his eyes, couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Oh god, oh god, what the fuck was happening?

The vicar, clutching to her amulet like a drowning man to a raft, screamed. A sound never to be forgotten, the sound of the gates of hell opening to swallow a damned soul. Her cry of torment almost drowned out the sound of bones snapping, of flesh and fabric tearing. But only almost. The Hunter, mortified, watched as this once pretty young lady slowly and painfully transformed, her skeleton bending and reshaping into a monstrous form. Finally, her human body couldn't withstand the pressure and pain of the painful perversion and corruption of her form, and-

And her flesh tore completely off her body.

Blood splattered everywhere, coating every inch of the cathedral in sick, pungent red. The Hunter couldn't even flinch away as the vicar's blood struck him, so disgusted, terrified, mortified he was. 

Within a few more gut-retching seconds, a thick coat of fur covered her bared muscles and bones, and her screams slowly died down, becoming growls once again.

She turned her monstrous, canine head to face the Hunter, her jagged teeth bared in a snarl.

And with that, another fight commenced.


	2. Chapter 2

He killed her.

It only took one attempt. Her body was weak to fire, he discovered quickly. The flamesprayer that Gilbert had gifted him, once polished and brand new, had found use after all this time.

The once beautiful cathedral was defaced and stained by blood, ash, and the corpse of its last vicar. Scarlet pooled in the cracks in the stone left both by time and by the fierce battle, the air was heavy with the pungent stench of blood and burnt flesh. Half of Amelia’s body wasn’t even proper flesh, but burnt muscle and fur that smoldered and smoked and burned the Hunter’s nostrils. Gods, if she wasn’t mangled before… Not only was she more ash than flesh, but she was nearly torn to pieces by the Hunter and his ax. At one point in the battle, he had hefted his weapon over his head and smashed it into her skull as hard as he could. The feeling of bone and brain giving way beneath cold steel wasn’t one to be forgotten. And yet, even after that, she reared back up and continued to fight for her life before finally being consumed by flame from a well aimed molotov cocktail.

The Hunter inspected her corpse, numb. He wasn’t sure what to do otherwise. He had just killed a once beautiful woman, a holy woman no less, who had transformed right before his eyes into a hideous beast. In her right paw, she was still clutching her amulet, like a drowning man holding onto a piece of driftwood.

Curious, the Hunter gingerly removed the golden pendant from her grip, surprisingly strong even in death. And after looking over it, he was so consumed with emotion that he could do nothing but fall to his knees and weep.

The amulet that Amelia clung to so desperately was just like his locket. It was a reminder. It was a symbol of hope, a beacon of light in this darkest of nights that lead Amelia and the vicars before her. It served as an anchor to sanity, to reality, to remind the wearer that there is more than the hunt and blood. He wouldn’t let her efforts be in vain.

He clasped Amelia’s pendant around his neck, to rest beside his beloved locket, safely tucked beneath layers of fabric. Its original purpose was to remind Amelia to be cautious, and for the Hunter, it would do just the same. It would remind him of Amelia’s fate, to not become lost in the blood lust of the hunt, to not let his own confidence be his downfall. He would learn from her and Gascoigne’s mistakes, he would be better.

But the new weight of the pendant also weighed heavily on his heart. He knew he didn’t have the time to think over his actions, to mourn Amelia, to wonder why he knew her name but not the names of anyone else. No, he had to heed Gerhman’s advice and touch the weird, grotesque skull sitting at the altar, untouched by the gore and viscera.

\---

_Fear the Old Blood._

That was what the fucking amulet meant. That adage led to the founding of the Healing Church. _But they fucking forgot._ They didn’t heed their founder’s fear, they were selfish and stupid and damned an entire fucking city and generations of innocent people to the worst hell anyone could imagine. The Hunter hoped those bastards were fucking happy with the destruction and death they left in their wake. After all, the Church itself was all but dead, drowning in blood and losing worshiper after worshiper to the Hunt.

And the Hunter was going to eliminate the last standing members of the Church, beast or not, to exact vengeance on behalf of all of Yharnam.

Furious, the Hunter cleaned his ax, armed with his newfound righteous anger, headed to the one path he had yet to explore in the Ward. Well, certainly there were other paths he hadn’t traveled down, but they didn’t matter. He knew _exactly_ where he needed to go to be rid of this nightmare.

Focused on nothing but ending the night, the Hunter pressed on, stepping over the bloodied and broken bodies of beasts. He strode as if he owned the streets; as far as he knew, he was the only sane beast hunter in the entire god forsaken city. It was lonely. To walk the streets and see the broken windows, chained coffins, abandoned homes, it was devastating to see firsthand the fall of a once prosperous city.

He would make the Church pay.

The Hunter stepped through the arch on the right of the plaza, his axe transformed and at the ready. First, he only saw one of the disgustingly fat crows, and killed it quickly, crinkling his nose at the horrid smell of its foul gore. But then, he heard a strange gurgling, strangling sound from just behind him. 

Whipping around and slashing blindly, whatever was making the sound managed to evade his graceless swings. He stopped, tried to gain his bearings as to what the hell was going on, when he was suddenly seized from behind. In his panic, he tried to fight back, to thrash against whoever or whatever had grabbed him, panic swelling in his throat when he realized that the thing possessed a strength far greater than his.

All the times he had been ambushed and killed brutally from behind came rushing to the front of his mind, he doubled his efforts to escape the grasp of the unknown monster- when some long, thin tendril latched onto his head. First, it was just cold and wet, horribly uncomfortable but not painful. A moment later, and the Hunter’s mind was filled with nothing but the worst, freezing pain he could have ever imagined. Memories of the inexplicable monsters and horrors he’d borne witness to came flooding back, overwhelming his senses, as if he was reliving those moments. He stopped existing in the present and traveled back to those moments, witnessing the cleric beast leaping over the gate with a screech, feeling himself fly backwards and hitting a gravestone when Gascoigne shed his human form and became a massive, lumbering beast.

After an eternity or perhaps only a few seconds, the Hunter was released and fell to the ground in a boneless heap, slowly returning to his senses. His mind throbbed, he felt like he had forgotten something important, and his throat hurt as if he had been screaming- had he? There was a ringing in his ears that deafened him to everything else, and an all consuming pain making it impossible to move.

The ringing died down, and he heard a shout followed by the clanging of metal against stone and flesh. Panic flooded his veins and he scrambled against the wall, still too weak and confused to stand, ax extended in front of him defensively, heart pounding against his ribs.

Before him stood a… a human man. His wavy blond hair was messy and tousled, his grey robes spattered in a foul smelling dark substance, holding a thin sword dripping with that same disgusting liquid. Behind him was the body of a revolting, humanoid thing, its face a mess of tentacles and a massive tentacle protruding from the top of its head. As if he hadn’t just finished slaughtering the beast, the blond man smiled kindly, and held out his gloved hand to the Hunter. “Are you quite alright?”

Still high on adrenaline and panic, the Hunter struggled to his feet, using the wall behind him to prop himself upright, his ax still raised, ready to strike.

The man took a step back, holding his hands up as if in surrender. The smile fell from his face, but he still came across as harmless and friendly. “Ah, sincerest apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you. You’re a hunter, aren’t you?” Mutely, the Hunter nodded, the fear gradually evaporating from his system. Instead, he was perplexed- who was this? Why was someone helping him?

"I knew it!" he continued cheerily, as if he wasn't covered in the gore of an inhuman beast. "That's precisely how I started out. Though I hardly hunt beasts of this sort any longer," he poked the corpse with the end of the blade, "I had eliminated some of these foul things to stand watch at my post. Evidently, I did miss a few beasts here and there- ah, well, I suppose for how long I have gone since my last hunt, it only makes sense that my skills are a tad below par." 

The Hunter's bewilderment must have finally showed in his expression, or perhaps this mysterious savior of his just remembered how normal human interactions are meant to go. Either way, he stopped himself mid-ramble, laughing amiably. The sound was unlike anything the Hunter expected to ever hear in Yharnam, a sound of genuine joy and amusement. "Oh, beg pardon, you may call me Alfred, protege of Master Logarius, hunter of Vilebloods." With that, he slung his sword into a hilt on his back, and once again held out his hand in greeting. This time, the Hunter accepted, though still hesitantly. "And what might your name be?"

The Hunter shrugged, still struggling to find his voice. "I, um, I don't have one. I mean, I did, probably, but I don't remember it."

Alfred furrowed his brow. "Well, that's rather unfortunate. And, given your accent and complexion, I do say it's rather safe to assume you are not a native born Yharnamite, either."

The Hunter, again, could only shrug. "I suppose, yeah. I- I'm sorry, I just, I haven't met many people like you."

"Oh? And how do you mean by that?" Alfred cocked his head, leaning casually against a fence. 

"I mean, people not halfway to turning into beasts, and who are actually open to talking to me. Wait." He froze, glaring at Alfred. "You're not corrupted by blood, right?"

Alfred chuckled. "No, not at all. See here," he grinned and tapped his finger on one of his canines- not elongated or overly sharp in the slightest. "And, as far as I am aware, my pupils are far from collapsing. I rarely consume blood, especially since changing my quarry to the real beasts.” Then, as if some great revelation came upon him, Alfred continued. “Our prey may differ, but we are still hunters, the both of us. Why not cooperate, and discuss the things we've learned?"

Despite knowing damn well to not form attachments to anyone in this horrible place, the Hunter smiled. "Sure, I'd like that. I'm sure you have a lot of wisdom I could benefit from. For example, what the hell is that thing?" he asked, pointing at the octopus-like beast that tore memories straight from his skull.

"Ah, that's right, you have not been given the luxury of a mentor, have you? Such terrible times, these are, the Hunts so severe that we cannot spare a single soul to teach our newest Hunters!" Alfred shook his head sadly before resuming his oddly cheerful countenance. "Do you have much time to spare?"

The Hunter dumbly glanced at the sky above- the moon, full and fat from the feast of suffering laid below her, hadn't moved an inch in the sky despite his body telling him it's been days since the Hunt began. But that couldn't possibly be right, right? "I guess so. I mean, the Hunt ends when the night's over, so I have however long it takes until morning."

Alfred smiled sadly, his eyes filled with pity. "Oh, you do have so much to learn. Follow me, good Hunter; hopefully no one has burned down the library again, so I might properly instruct you in the sacred practice of beast hunting." Without waiting for an answer, Alfred calmly walked away, assuming correctly that the Hunter would follow right behind him. It was then that the Hunter noticed that his sword and its sheath wasn't quite normal- the damn thing could transform into a massive war hammer. And yet Alfred could walk and move as if he wasn't being weighed down by god knows how many extra kilos. 

Still, his amazement at Alfred's weapon couldn't distract him from a certain detail the former hunter had mentioned. "Wait, again? Is burning down buildings a normal part of the Hunt?"

"Welcome to Yharnam, my friend."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited this chapter too, hopefully events make more sense. Also sorry that everything is so much longer now, I'm trying to take advantage of my lack of writer's block while it lasts, and this is how it's manifesting...

Alfred’s instruction was incredibly helpful for the Hunter. Prior to meeting Alfred, he hadn’t a clue what these beasts were, what caused them, the best weapons to use against certain beasts, but now, he was armed with an arsenal of information and techniques to improve his hunting. As well, the hunter of Vilebloods gifted him something called firepaper, promising that massive beasts with no semblance to humanity are especially vulnerable to flame. Pungent blood cocktails, as well, are a valuable, yet usually ignored, resource during the Hunt.

With this new information and Alfred’s gifts, the Hunter found that he became significantly more efficient. He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad, but at least that meant he died far less.

With surprising ease, the Hunter cut through the monsters of the forbidden woods, traversing the winding path as efficiently as any native. He had learned not to get his hopes up while hunting, but he would be lying if he said he was certain of his demise at the hands of these beasts. Also, the woods had a certain charm to them, once he was no longer surrounded by snarls and screams. The plants grew unfettered by humanity, the trees beautiful and comforting in the shelter they provided, leafless or no. They protected him from the omnipresent glare of the moon, and for that, the Hunter was grateful.

But he never stopped for more than a minute or two, afraid of sitting in one place for too long. Besides, the faster he found the Paleblood, the faster the night would end.

\---

So close.

 _So fucking close_ to uncovering the secrets hidden in the college.

But naturally, things could never be so easy.

Tenth death to the damned monsters in Byrgenwerth. He hadn’t even entered the fucking college, not once, before perishing in a frenzy or from the brute force of the insect like… _things._

The Hunter thought he had become unstoppable. He slaughtered the shadows in the forest with ease! But now, each step was unsure, prepared for the very earth to fall from beneath him. Nothing was certain.

Gods above damn it, the Hunter _hated_ the Hunt. He hated the blood, he hated the pain, but most of all, he hated the loneliness. Hunters of the past would travel with at least one partner- as strong as one person might be, strength in numbers cannot be beaten. One man, alone, armed only with his wits and an axe, was a force easily stopped.

He had made acquaintances along the way, certainly- Eileen the Hunter of Hunters, Master Valtr, and Djura, yet none would chat with him save a few brief words that all boiled down to “we have our own work to do, now run along, boy.” None would subject themselves to the terrors of the Hunt again, especially not for him.

He sighed, sitting in the workshop, surrounded by piles of dusty books and unknown vials. Absentmindedly, he thumbed the hinges of his locket, thinking. 

“Good hunter, is something troubling you?” inquired the doll, her approach absolutely silent.

The Hunter leapt to his feet, grasping for his axe before realizing it was only her. Chuckling at his own overreaction, he tried to act like the doll hadn’t terrified him until his heart was louder than his own thoughts. “A little, I suppose. I just, you told me that hunters once travelled in groups.”

“Yes,” she answered, her voice emotionless and cool as always. “It was the most efficient way to stop the beasts, to work in groups of at least three. Some still chose to work alone, but there was always more than one hunter watching the streets on these long nights.”

“Except tonight,” he lamented. “God, I would give anything to have another hunter to fight alongside- I can’t imagine a reality where I can finish this alone.”

Curiously, she cocked her head at him. “Are you sure you are truly alone? Such a thing would be unheard of, to only have a single hunter fighting the beasts.”

“I’m positive. Everyone’s either dead, a beast, or retired from hunting at all.” 

The doll hummed, a sound which the Hunter would never grow accustomed to- that and her breathing when she slept. It was viscerally disturbing on a level he could not name. Regardless, he hid his reaction well, and she continued. “That is most unfortunate, good Hunter. Is there no one to summon with the bell?”

Wait. 

The fight in Old Yharnam, the horrible flayed beast that stunk of poison- he had summoned Alfred for that. If ever he summoned another hunter, they were long since gone or only stayed for that one fight. But Alfred, he knew Alfred, he spoke to Alfred often, he could ask for help! Damn, how had he not thought of that before?

Suddenly reinvigorated in a way he thought impossible, the Hunter hurriedly gathered his things. “That’s absolutely brilliant, thank you!” And with that, he returned to the Waking World, back to the chapel.

Speaking quick ‘hello, how do you do’s with the dweller and the still mostly sane people sheltering there, the Hunter dashed back to where he last encountered the executioner. And, lo and behold, he was still there, guarding the entrance to the Forbidden Woods. Alfred smiled, such a genuine gesture of happiness and personhood that the Hunter nearly forgot his purpose.

“Ah, good Hunter! Good to see you safe. Have you a new discovery to share?”

“Hello again Alfred!” the Hunter chirped, ignoring his mounting anxiety. “Actually, I come with a request.”

“Oh?” The executioner leaned on his kirkhammer like a cane, his inquisitive green eyes intent upon the Hunter.

Swallowing his fear, the Hunter spit it out quickly. “I was just wondering if you would be willing to, to hunt with me?” When Alfred took just a second too long to respond, the anxiety took over, and the Hunter began to ramble. “As far as I understand it, the Hunt is nearly over, I just, the beasts have become too strong for me now and need help breaking the seal in Byrgenwerth-”

Alfred raised his hand in a gesture for silence, and the Hunter gladly shut his mouth, realizing his mistake as Alfred’s expression grew unreadable. They had spoken once already about Byrgenwerth, and how it was declared forbidden ground. Even if Alfred wasn’t technically a member of the Church, he still made it clear that he abided by all of their laws and regulations. As an executioner, he was the hand of the church, he acted to eliminate their enemies.

“You’ve entered Byrgenwerth? The Forbidden Woods?”

“Yes, but-”

“Then I cannot follow, my friend. I’m sorry.” The hint of the saintly smile back on his face, Alfred went on to assure the Hunter that he was not upset, but that he simply could not do the same. “You are not a member of the Church, you are unaware of the customs of this city. As such, I cannot be cross with you. But as I said before, I was once a beast hunter, but no longer. I have found a higher purpose in the ranks of the executioners. I have both freedoms and limitations you do not.”

A heavy pause filled the air. The distant moans of the sick assaulted their ears, carried by the wind. A reminder of what the world has become. With each heartbeat, the Hunter grew more and more feverish, sure he would either vomit or tear his flesh apart from the tension.

“Unless…” Alfred finally said, his voice breaking the miserable spell.

“Yes?” A word full of desperation, but the Hunter had no dignity left to defend.

“Unless you joined me instead,” the executioner concluded with that same cheer and spirit as when they first crossed paths. “Unless you join the ranks of the Executioners, aid me in my holy quest, help me carry on the honorable legacy of Master Logarius. Once we have found a path to Cainhurst Castle,” he spoke the name as if it burned his tongue with corruption, “then I may assist you to end this wretched night.”

Another pregnant pause.

“So? What say you?”

The locket weighed heavily against his chest as he pondered his answer. A friend. That would be a nice change of pace. A friend to fight alongside, not just a partner bound to him for a single night. A friend. Sure, he had no idea what this new alliance would entail, what he would have to do to fulfill his new duties as an executioner, but... 

But he felt an obligation to Alfred. Even if he had once desired nothing more than to slaughter everyone affiliated with the Church, Alfred had coaxed that anger away from him. Besides, this one man hadn't even been born by the time of the first Hunt, what harm would it do to join his ranks? The executioners weren't corrupted by blood, they were the only holy and honorable thing to come from the horrific institution. At least, that's what the Hunter had gleaned from Alfred, and that's what his desperate mind could conjure up to differentiate between the man before him and the people who brought the Hunt into being in the first place. Truthfully, he felt a deeper sense of kinship he never knew before, save for the inanimate faces in his locket. 

As he took a breath to answer, he knew he would have cut off his own hand if it meant having a true friend in this damned world. Forget his prejudices, forget his fears, forget his hopes- damn them all to hell, he was going to finally have a friend. Even if that meant ignoring the way the back of his mind told him no, that this went against everything he set out to do. He would do it.

"Yes, I’ll join you.”

Alfred beamed with pride, holding his arms open as if to embrace the Hunter. "Welcome to our ranks, brother.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I promise romantic things are coming, but the plot has to happen first, ya know? (Yes it's taken this long for the plot to pick up I'm sorry)

Of all the inexplicable things the Hunter had come across, quite honestly, nothing could prepare him for Alfred inviting him to his home. It made sense, sure- it was a safe place where Alfred could teach him more about the executioners. But damn if it wasn’t surprising. And with each second that passed with the Hunter as an executioner, he only grew more and more surprised. 

Alfred’s home was nestled in the outskirts of the church ward, the path now strewn with the misshapen, perverted forms of slaughtered beasts. They had to step over one particularly mangled corpse, the head all but severed, clinging to the body by only a few tendons. Alfred seemed completely unbothered by this, casting only a bemused glance down at the body of his neighbor. 

“Well, you’re quite an accomplished hunter, it would seem,” he said, taking a moment to admire how many corpses were scattered about the street. 

The Hunter, trying to mimic Alfred’ nonchalant mannerisms, attempted to stride smoothly over the body of a rifle-toting huntsman, only to nearly trip over its spindly arm. “Um, yes, I suppose so, thank you. I- are you not bothered by this?”

Alfred offered a steadying hand, which the Hunter, if not a little embarrassed, accepted. “How do you mean?” 

“The Hunt. _This_ ,” he gestured with a wide sweep of his arm to the bodies he slaughtered.

Alfred hummed thoughtfully. “When I was a hunter of beasts like yourself, yes, it did bother me greatly. And when I was a small child, well, I was always mortified when the Hunt came ‘round. But now? Now I know these people got what they deserve.” He scrunched up his nose in disgust, flipping one of the bodies over with the tip of his sword. “I recognize many of these bodies, but I can no longer bring myself to feel more than pity. After all, if they had listened to the Church, and had not gorged themselves on the blood, the Hunt would never have come into being.”

The Hunter’s brows knit together, but before he could ask more questions, they were standing before Alfred’s home. It was a humble affair, made of simple stone and brick like every other house he had come across so far, but it was still so distinguished in its own way. Unlike the surrounding homes, it wasn’t decrepit, but clearly well taken care of. The bricks were clean, the door was polished and free of claw marks, there were no chains to be seen, and there was a warm light pouring from inside. The sweet scent of incense was heavy in the air as they approached, cleansing the Hunter’s nose from the sickly stench of gore and decay.

Unlocking the door, Alfred held it open for the Hunter. “Welcome to my home. Do pardon the clutter, I hadn’t been expecting guests anytime soon.”

The Hunter stepped through the doorway and felt as though he had entered an entirely separate world. It was jarring, to say the least.

Stepping into the living room, the Hunter was in awe at the welcoming air. Some plush, well worn chairs sat opposite an ornate couch, a simple iron fireplace on the furthest wall, the insignia of the executioners was carved into the keystone of the hearth. Shelves lined the walls, stacked to the brim with countless books and little treasures from adventures past. A tattered, old book in some foreign language sat open on the coffee table, as well as an unorganized pile of opened letters. The kitchen beyond was modest, and indeed there was some clutter on the kitchen table- upon it were the same tools the Hunter had used countless times in the workshop, as well as an old blade that Alfred had evidently been trying to repair. Despite only being there for a few seconds, the Hunter felt so deeply at ease that he nearly broke into tears. 

Safe. He was safe. And in the home of a trusted friend.

Slowly, as if afraid to break the spell, the Hunter tugged his mask down to let it hang limply around his neck, taking in a breath of the herbal-scented air.

“Do make yourself comfortable,” called Alfred as he shut and locked the door, unaware of how ineffably happy the Hunter was. “Would you like some tea?” he called over his shoulder, already headed to the kitchen. 

Hoping his voice wouldn’t let on just how emotional he had become over such a simple gesture, the Hunter accepted the offer, thanking him. Unsure what to do, he followed Alfred to the kitchen, feeling rather like a lost puppy. 

“Take a seat,” Alfred said, a little bemused at the Hunter’s caution, going about brewing a pot for the two.

Having put the kettle on to boil, Alfred cleared off a little area on the table for the two to sit without accidentally stabbing themselves or knocking something over. He gestured for the Hunter to sit, and sat across from him. “So, while that boils,” Alfred rested his head on his hand, looking intently at the Hunter, “would you like for me to go over the history and values of the Executioners?”

The Hunter nodded again. “It would be nice to know more about the faction I just joined.”

“Now, _technically_ , you are not yet a member of the Executioners,” Alfred said, “For that, you must recite our mantra and memorize our rune. Right now, you are considered an initiate. Nonetheless, I consider you my brother in arms, even if you have yet to behold our rune.”

A sense of belonging washed over the Hunter, and finally he relaxed into his seat, the tension leaving his body for the first time since the Hunt began. Sure, there was still anxiety and resistance in the back of his mind, something yelling at him that this was irresponsible, that this was a distraction from his goal, that this was too good to be true- but with enough effort, he could push those worries away to relish the chance to relax.

The Hunter unconsciously fiddled with the chain of his locket, forgetting he was still wearing Amelia’s amulet until the two chains tangled together.

Doing his best to be brief, and relying upon the Hunter remembering all he had told him previously, Alfred began the arduous task of summarizing the history of his beloved covenant.

The Executioners were formed many years ago, back when the Hunt was still quite new to Yharnam. The Church, being a beacon of purity and healing, could only do so much to protect its people against beastly threats, and so formed the Healing Church Hunters. But then, a new threat arose that would cause even more damage to the people of Yharnam if left uncontested: the Vilebloods, and all the impure blood practices therein. A small convenant broke off from the original church Hunters, under the guidance of the eminent Master Logarius, determined to put a definitive end to all impure practices, starting with the systematic execution of each and every last Vileblood.

Since Master Logarius sacrificed himself to protect the world from the Vileblood menace, the Executioners became a smaller and smaller group, but served to rally the spirits of the Yharnamites and protect them from heretics and impure blood practices. Despite the group being so tiny now, the simple sight of their habit, especially their golden ardeo, inspires hope and determination in any good Yharnamite’s heart. 

As for their values, well… that very much covers it. They desire nothing more than to keep the practice of blood healing sacred and pure and to protect Yharnam against heretics.

Now, the Hunter was not completely blinded by his adoration of Alfred and his desire to belong. He knew the hypocrisy of the Church, he had seen it firsthand. It took so much effort to bite his tongue, to keep from explaining that the practice of blood healing itself is pure, but the way the Church encourages the consumption of blood beyond the first transfusion… that was perverse. That was what corrupted people, not some silly nobles from a distant castle.

But Alfred spoke with such conviction, surely, surely there was something redeeming in the church. Perhaps the Executioners truly were the last pillar of goodness. After all, Alfred had explained when they first met that the Executioners discourage partaking in blood for anything but absolute necessity, which has saved many of their rank from beasthood. And he genuinely seemed to believe in their cause. 

Hunter internally lamented his conflict, trying to rationalize his worries away. It’s okay, he told himself. This is just the means to an end, remember? He only joined so Alfred would help him end the Hunt once and for all. It’s fine. It’s fine. He could explain to Alfred later of what the Church has done, perhaps taking him to Byrgenwerth would open his eyes. It’s fine. 

_It’s fine._

The tea kettle emitted a high whistle, so similar to a scream that the Hunter launched himself from his seat, axe in hand, terror hearing his veins, panic flooding his senses, only brought back to earth when Alfred gently took hold of his arms and made him lower his weapon.

“You are alright,” the executioner softly assured his frightened companion, “you are safe here, good Hunter. I am so sorry for my oversight, I hadn’t thought to warn you of the sound-”

“It’s okay,” the Hunter managed a nervous laugh. “I’m just jumpy, is all.”

Alfred, continuing to apologize, quickly took the kettle off the stove and prepared himself and the Hunter their tea, adding extra sugar to the Hunter’s just to be safe. 

The pair continued to discuss the duties of the Executioners as the Hunter’s nerves slowly soothed over. Alfred confirmed that, ultimately, his goal is to honor Master Logarius as a proper martyr, and to do that, he would need to find the way to Cainhurst Castle. Once that is accomplished, he would gladly help the Hunter end the night, assuring him that it would hardly take more than a few days at most.

“Wait, a few days? How long is the Hunt?”

Confused, Alfred answered, “Well, the hunt is a nightly affair, but once a year, there is a proper Hunt, where the night can last the span of a few days to over a month, depending entirely on how large the moon is. And this night is unique to say the least; the moon is closer now than ever before, and it seems almost no one is safe from beasthood. Those who transform become far more grotesque, as well.” With a grave air of finality, Alfred added, “I fully believe this Hunt is the last. Whether that means we all become beasts, or it ends for good, I cannot say.”

“I picked a wonderful time to come to Yharnam, didn’t I?”

“Oh, you have absolutely impeccable timing, my friend.”

Upon them finishing their tea, Alfred stood and stretched, hoisting his massive kirkhammer over his shoulder. “Unless you wish to rest, I say we get right to work on our quest.”

The Hunter agreed, pulling his mask back up, determination swelling in his chest. “And I think I know where to start.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is sort of rushed, so I will likely edit this later on, but I figured you'd like an update sooner rather than later. Also, this was when I realized I absolutely cannot write hurt/comfort at all, I literally had to ask my friend how people hug... This is my life now, folks.

Since he first awoke, the Hunter had flashes of… not memory, precisely, but random snippets of information. It had mostly just been names, really- Iosefka, Vicar Amelia, and Father Gascoigne, for example. But in this case, while he had been sipping tea with Alfred, he realized that he knew where to find _something_ that would let them into Cainhurst. Back in Iosefka’s clinic. He had no idea how or why or even what they were looking for, but he knew it was there. That was all that mattered. 

Alfred was amazed by the Hunter’s knowledge, theorizing that perhaps he had a few memories of Yharnam just prior to the transfusion. After all, he had heard tell of an outsider coming to Yharnam for blood ministration, though he had been too busy preparing for the Hunt to pay much attention to the rumors. Which meant that, for now, the Hunter’s real name was still a mystery, unfortunately.

Ah well, his name had no effect on the mission at hand anyhow.

Pressing on through the deserted streets, the Hunter led Alfred to the location of his first clear memories. It was surreal to walk back through the doors of the clinic, where there was still a massive pool of blood from where he first died. The corpse of the lycanthrope rested exactly where the Hunter left it, crumpled and broken down the middle, limply laying in the corner. The interior of the clinic was still nearly pitch black, illuminated only by the moonlight pouring in through the windows and the faint glow of the lantern.

Alfred was right behind the Hunter, looking about the decrepit, bloodied clinic sadly. “How unfortunate,” he whispered, “that this place of ministration and healing should fall into such disrepair.”

The Hunter signaled for Alfred to follow quietly before pressing on, walking up the stairs to a door that had always been shut to him. Politely, he knocked, waiting for that familiar voice to answer. 

“Oh, well, hello,” answered the feminine voice of Iosefka. “Have you brought any survivors?”

“No, I’m sorry, but I need to pick something up from the upstairs of the clinic.”

“Oh?” Iosefka sounded indignant. “You cannot come in, but perhaps I can bring you whatever you left, if you would like?”

Before the Hunter could answer, Alfred pulled him away from the door, wearing an expression of confusion. “I thought you said you spoke to Iosefka?”

Perplexed, the Hunter whispered back, “Yeah, that’s Iosefka, right?”

“Hunter?” Iosefka called. “I can hear you speaking to someone.”

Alfred’s face shifted from one of confusion to one of cold fury, the strength of his glare enough to freeze a beast in its tracks. “No.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Alfred pulled his kirkhammer from its sheath, slamming the enormous hammer into the aged wood. A thunderous _boom_ filled the air, accompanied by the sound of wood splintering and giving way beneath the force of the blow and the scream of the imposter. She was shouting something, but pleas were swallowed by the crashing sound of the hinges breaking. Once the door finally fell, dear gods above, his expression was _terrifying,_ his eyes aflame with vengeance and his teeth bared in a primal snarl as he leapt into the room. 

Already, the imposter was on the offensive. Any fear that once showed in her eyes was soon replaced by a horrible mania, a sick smile twisting her thin features. “The circumstances are less than ideal, but I’ve always wanted to try my hand on a hunter.” She drew her cane and, tapping it against the ground just so, transformed it into a whip. 

Immediately, the Hunter and Alfred rushed at her, their weapons ready to tear into her flesh. Alfred, a low growl building in his throat, lunged forward, kirkhammer raised above his head, ready to crush her thin bones. 

But the doctor -the impersonator- she was ready. She leapt out of the way right as Alfred was mid-swing, shooting him in the chest with her repeating pistol. He fell to one knee, staggered. 

The Hunter knew damn well what was coming, and jumped in the way of Iosefka and Alfred, slashing at her with his axe clumsily. It was enough to stop her from tearing his heart out through his chest, which was good enough for him, even if he barely drew blood with his blow. 

The imposter snapped her attention to the Hunter, grimacing. “Just-” she struck out one with her whip, and the Hunter was too slow to dodge it, the first strike cutting his forearm deeply, the agony soon dulled by adrenaline, “stay-” she cracked the whip again, this time catching the Hunter’s hand, the burning pain momentarily overwhelming, “still!” 

Alfred took advantage of her focusing her blows upon the Hunter to swing the kirkhammer with all his might, slamming the blunt head against the imposter. She fell back several feet- Alfred transformed his hammer back into the thin sword, driving the blade downwards to impale her, but she rolled out of the way seconds before the blade would have cut her in twain. 

The imposter leapt away from the pair, moving as if to inject herself with a blood vial, her efforts stopped by the Hunter shooting her arm. She cried out in pain, nearly dropping her threaded cane. “Just DIE!” she screamed, and the Hunter and Alfred both rushed towards her, hoping to make the fight a quick one. She reached out with her arm, and in the blink of an eye, her arm was… gone. Replaced instead by dark, writing tentacles that struck the Hunter, throwing him backwards, the force so great that all air left his lungs, and he swore he felt his ribs crack.

Alfred, fueled by anger at seeing his friend so wounded, doubled the ferocity of his attacks. He barely paused his assault to breathe, slashing madly with his blade. 

The Hunter scrambled to his feet, quickly injecting himself with blood, relieved at the healing warmth that spread through his body. Seeing Iosefka’s imposter reach out again, he tried to call out to Alfred to watch out, when he too fell victim to the ethereal tendrils, knocking him to the ground as well. 

The imposter panted with the effort, her once white attire now coated with deep crimson, her pale eyes unfocused but her unnerving smile unwavering. “This won’t hurt a bit…” She raised her arms above her head, a strange aura growing around her, but the Hunter was not about to let her finish her spell. He shot at her again with his pistol, the sharp pain of the bullet lodging itself in her chest enough to stop her efforts.

The Hunter ended the fight with one last decisive blow with his axe, the blade buried in her shoulder, cutting through muscle and bone with ease. 

He hadn’t wanted to kill her, really. For all she had done, for all the anger he felt towards her, he wanted answers more than anything. 

But Alfred cared not for answers, no; all he desired was retribution.

While the doctor was pinned by the Hunter’s axe blade, Alfred took the opportunity to slit her throat cleanly on his sword. 

At first, it seemed as though her body hadn’t even registered that her throat had been cut. She managed to look the Hunter in the eyes, the first time her gaze had been focused the entire battle. “Curse you oblivious fools,” she gasped, blood dribbling over her lips and onto her chin. It took a full second before the light left her eyes, and all the fight left her body with a few disgusting gurgles as she choked on her own blood, now pouring down her front in a river of red. Her body crumpled to the blood-stained ground in a heap.

Alfred, ignoring the corpse of the damned imposter, turned his attention to the Hunter, grabbing his by the shoulders and turning the Hunter to face him, assessing his injuries. “My friend, are you alright?”

The Hunter nodded, unable to avert his eyes from the imposter. “I… I trusted her. I thought, I thought she cared about bettering Yharnam. I- I sent a little girl to her care.”

Alfred pulled his companion into a comforting embrace, the Hunter resting his head against Alfred’s shoulder and gladly reciprocating, wrapping his arms around Alfred in turn. “I am sorry, good Hunter- such is the nature of the Hunt. Even if one’s flesh is human, it does not stop one from being a monster.” He felt the Hunter tremble in his arms and held him closer, gently stroking the Hunter’s back, hoping the touch wouldn’t upset his friend further.

“I’m sorry,” the Hunter mumbled, pulling away from the hug. “I really should be more adult about this.” 

The Hunter had tried not to cry, to hold back his tears when Alfred held him so tenderly. He had never been touched so softly, held so close, felt so loved before. But looking Alfred in the eyes, he was overwhelmed by tenderness in his expression, and was momentarily unable to think straight. It took every ounce of his willpower to not collapse into sobs right there on the bloodsoaked floor. No, he had to be strong for his friend, he had to prove he was able to handle the onus of the Hunt- already he was ashamed for accepting the embrace, for how absolutely weak he felt in that moment. 

“To mourn is hardly immature,” Alfred assured him. “Do not let yourself be devoured by guilt, either; according to Master Logarius, undue guilt is the downfall of even the greatest men. You were not responsible for what the imposter did, you were not responsible for falling for her trap. Do you understand that?”

Making a mental note to down some sedatives as soon as possible, the Hunter took a steadying breath, glad that his fabric mask hid his frown. “Yes, thank you. I- let’s continue please. The sooner we continue, the sooner we can leave.”

Alfred nodded, unsheathing his blade once again. “Lead the way, good Hunter.”

\---

They found the real Iosefka and the little girl the Hunter sent to the clinic. 

Their forms were perverted, they had nothing in common with humanity any longer. They were completely alien, with pale blue flesh, speckled with luminescent spots, their heads misshapen and inflated.

Alfred, mortified, offered to kill them both for the Hunter. The executioner knew too well what they had become, but the Hunter was already so horrified, he would spare him the insight until later. The Hunter agreed that Alfred should put them out of their misery, which he did, quickly and cleanly, assuring the poor souls did not suffer. Quietly, Alfred handed the Hunter a bloodied ribbon the smaller of the two clutched in its grotesque grip.

It was only then that the Hunter realized what had become of the real Iosefka and the poor little girl. 

He tied the ribbon around his wrist and, ignoring Alfred’s presence entirely, pulled his mask off and downed a couple bottles of sedative. The heavy blood sank into his stomach, slowly numbing him from the inside out, providing a wonderful respite from his guilt that tore his mind apart.

Alfred shot him a look of disapproval, but the Hunter only shrugged indifferently. “It’s only my second time using the blood like this,” he explained, his words a little slurred. Perhaps he consumed a tad too much a tad too fast. “It’s fine. Guilt is the downfall of men, right?”

“As is the frivolous consumption of blood.” Alfred could not be angry, as his friend was hurting and could only find release through the blood. But damn if he wasn’t upset. He thought his lecture about the Executioners’ avoidance of blood would have made some sort of impact on the Hunter’s behaviours. Disappointed, that was the more appropriate word. He was determined to wean the Hunter from his reliance on blood, as soon as his friend sobered up. 

As much as he hated to admit it, it was just a _little funny_ how quickly the Hunter became intoxicated. Alfred wondered if he was such a lightweight when it came to ale, too, before banishing the thought in favor of focusing on the mission.

The Hunter pulled his mask back up, now so delightfully numb that his muscles were weak. Hoping Alfred wouldn’t notice, he continued to lead through winding halls, past shelves of bloodied medical tools, past broken wheelchairs, past locked doors that lead to examination rooms. Finally, they found what they were looking for- a letter, left on the same examination table upon which the Hunter first awoke. 

“Here,” the Hunter said, passing the letter to Alfred. 

“Is that- the Cainhurst sigil?” Perplexed, Alfred flipped the letter over, his eyes widening. “‘To: the new Hunter of Yharnam.’ Are you- affiliated with them?”

Again, the Hunter shrugged. “Don’t remember. I think- no, wait.” His mind was sluggish, trying to think even in simple sentences was like trudging through mud. There was a little glimmer of a memory, though, and he screwed his eyes shut, desperately trying to remember. “Th’ blood minister, he- he said ‘nother hunter wanted me to have this. But I woke up, n’ didn’t know what it was, I left it.”

“Another hunter?” Alfred tore the envelope open, scanning the letter as quickly as he could. “It’s an invitation to Cainhurst. It seems this other hunter desired to corrupt you, to make you a Vileblood as well. Or, worse yet, use you to feed their foul Queen,” he growled with contempt. “How fortunate, that you should have met me prior to heeding the request of the summons- who knows what terrible fate you saved yourself from.” 

Looking back up at the Hunter, swaying drunkenly on his feet, Alfred pocketed the summons, taking one of the Hunter’s arms around his shoulders. “Come, now- let us head home and rest before setting out. We shall need both our strength and our wits before departing.”

The Hunter hummed. “Haven’t slept since the Hunt started. Nowhere safe.”

“Our home is safe,” Alfred said, before realizing his mistake, silently cursing his slip-up. He quickly tried to hide his panic, rambling about how this is why the Executioners avoid taking blood for anything but healing when absolutely necessary, to willingly dull your senses like this was a horrible practice one cannot make a habit of, even if it is to escape guilt. 

The Hunter did not visibly react to anything Alfred said beyond apologizing for being drunk, swearing he thought he could handle two sedatives better than this.

Some minutes later, they finally arrived at Alfred’s home, where the Hunter discarded his boots, coat, and hat, collapsing on Alfred’s sofa, falling asleep within seconds. The last words he properly comprehended rang through his mind as he dozed off, filling him with a comfort he didn’t think possible when still so affected by sedatives. 

_Our home is safe._

Our home.

He knew, deep in his mind, it was likely just a slip of the tongue, but still, he smiled to himself before his consciousness slipped away to a dreamless slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I sort of made up the reasoning behind the summons- I know plenty of people say it's magic, but I wanted to have real world reasons that it was addressed to you and why you find it on the table you woke up on. Like it says in the tags, this isn't canon compliant, I just needed an easy way to explain things.


	6. Chapter 6

Half-awake, the Hunter sighed, stretching languidly. His muscles were heavy from sleep, but at least his mind was no longer dulled by the blood, he noted with a contented sigh. Slowly, the Hunter slowly grew more aware of his surroundings, befuddled to find a plush pillow beneath his head and a warm, thick blanket draped over his body. With a jolt, he remembered that he was _sleeping in Alfred’s house._ After _passing out drunk from blood._

The Hunter sat up, quickly running a hand through his disheveled hair, hoping he didn’t look absolutely atrocious. Glancing around the living room, he found that his discarded effects were no longer in the haphazard pile he had left them. On one hand, the Hunter wanted to curse himself for becoming such a burden; sure, he had enjoyed the escape from his loathsome thoughts, but it was selfish of him to force Alfred to care for him in his drunken state. But on the other hand… he wanted to relish how cared for he felt. His friend provided a pillow and a blanket, just to make sure he was comfortable while he rested.

Breaking him out of his panic, Alfred stepped into the room, beaming upon seeing his companion awake. “Lo, the sleeper has risen!”

The Hunter smiled sheepishly. “Hey, I’m really sorry about all that. I- um.” What does he say? ‘Sorry for drinking blood like a hungry beast, but damn if I’m glad I did’? ‘I hope I didn’t say anything regrettable’? ‘Can I still be an executioner after such a shameful display’? He settled on “Thanks for the blanket and pillow.”

“No worries, my friend.” Alfred took the seat across from the Hunter, looking more well rested and significantly cleaner than last the Hunter saw him. “I had planned on resting and readying ourselves prior to leaving for Cainhurst, your being intoxicated hardly came in the way of that. Although,” his voice shifted from its usual jovial air to a much more serious tone, one akin to a teacher scolding a pupil. “I do hope I shan’t have to repeat why your abuse of the good blood is frowned upon?”

The Hunter shook his head. Really, he did not regret taking the sedatives entirely, it did mean he was spared the brunt of… whatever the hell happened. But he also knew that using the blood like that is what leads to those beastly transformations and to becoming fully blood drunk as a hunter. “Again, I’m really sorry. I know it was a dumb thing to do, but-” he paused, pressing the heels of his palms into his eye sockets, trying to banish the thoughts that lead him to drinking. 

The bloodied, tattered ribbon around his wrist refused to let him forget.

“I understand,” Alfred said softly. “I understand why. All I ask is you do not turn to the blood for anything but healing ever again, no matter how sweet the release may be. Both as a hunter and apiring executioner, you must keep your body and mind free of such vices.” Alfred leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the kindness in his gaze enough to make the Hunter forget his woes, if just for a moment. “As well, remember that you are not friendless in this world. I shall gladly share your pains, your burdens, and your guilt so you may not bear it alone. This is not out of my obligation as an executioner, but because I am your friend. I care about you, good Hunter.”

There was more yet that Alfred longed to say, but he stopped himself when he saw the muddled expression on the Hunter’s face. He sincerely hoped he hadn’t frightened the Hunter, or misinterpreted the nature of their companionship.

The Hunter, meanwhile, was speechless. His heart skipped a beat or three when Alfred spoke to him so sweetly, looked at him so tenderly, and he loathed himself for it. They were friends, _just_ friends, it was absurd of him to expect anything more. Unsure what else to say, the Hunter only uttered, “Thank you, that means a lot to me. I’m- I’m glad to have someone like you to trust.” 

Alfred released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “And I am glad to have someone like you as my friend.” As much as he wished they could be more, he would wait to express such desires. And, frankly, it was silly of him to assume the Hunter would reciprocate. He ought to focus on the task at hand; the Hunter only befriended him for help with the Hunt, after all.

“Now, I have supplies for cleaning and sharpening weaponry in the kitchen, as well as some extra quicksilver bullets if you are running low,” Alfred said, resuming his dignified air. “And this,” he drew a medal pendant from beneath the outermost layers of his habit, “is the Caryll rune of our covenant, should you wish to take the time to memorize it.”

The Hunter, in awe, stood up to take the pendant from Alfred. Gingerly, as if afraid the gold symbol would break with his touch, he held it aloft, inspecting the design. It was a pyramid shape, with a crescent eye gazing at him from the center. Rays of light emanated from the eye, forming the rest of the pyramid. It was a fascinating rune, filled with whispered promises of purity, of a higher purpose, of clarity of mind, chanted as if in prayer. 

“I, unfortunately, do not possess a memory altar or any of the tools one needs to memorize the rune,” Alfred continued. “To memorize it traditionally will take some time-”

“There’s a memory altar in the Dream,” the Hunter interrupted, “so no worries, it’ll only take me a minute or two to memorize.”

Alfred blinked owlishly. “The… Dream?”

“Were you not a hunter of the Dream?” The blank look he was given was all the answer the Hunter needed. “Um, well, you know how I can’t die? I just resurrect over and over?”

For a moment, Alfred looked mortified and confused, before bursting out in a hearty laugh. “Oh, like Eileen! Yes, I am familiar with the Dream, apologies for my confusion. I hadn’t heard mention of the Dream in some years now, I wasn’t aware it had tools like a memory altar.” He bid the Hunter a brief goodbye, telling him that, as soon as he returns, they would depart to Hemwick. 

Surely, it would be an easy journey, as Alfred trusted that the Hunter had done the same as he had in central Yharnam and had slaughtered all the beasts there.

Alfred would soon learn to not get his hopes up, just as the Hunter had.

“I thought you said you cleared out Hemwick!” Alfred cried over his shoulder, panting from the effort of taking down the last of the heavily armored axe-wielding brutes.

“I never said I cleared Charnel Lane,” the Hunter shouted back, leaping out of the way of one of the many rabid hunting dogs, its slobbering maw missing his arm by centimeters. “I just _ran!_ ”

Alfred, quickly healing before jumping to his companion’s side, shot a hound before it could advance upon the Hunter. “I can see that!” He stood back-to-back with his friend, slashing away at the rabid mutts in tandem with the Hunter. 

Finally, the horrible pack of hunting hounds was cut down, reduced to corpses littering the ground. It felt like an eternity, each time one dog was slaughtered, another took its place. It was exhausting. Luckily, none had landed a good blow on either the Hunter of Alfred, but to hold off an entire voracious pack was taxing. The two had to take a seat on the barren ground just to catch their breath, their muscles burning from the incredible strain..

The Hunter, upon standing, made a show about cleaning the blood, fur, and mud from his garb, even taking off his hat to smooth down his hair. Finally noticing Alfred’s quizzical look, he shrugged. “We’re going to meet royalty, aren’t we?” He grinned devilishly beneath the mask. “Might as well make a good first, and final, impression.” 

Alfred retrieved the crumpled, bloodstained summons from his robes, answering the Hunter’s grin with a stoic, determined countenance. “Shall we depart, my friend?”

The Hunter nodded, following Alfred as he approached the strange obelisk that faintly flowed in the pale moonlight. Alfred rested his hand upon the stone, his fingers tracing over the patterns sculpted into the surface. 

Before he could even take a breath to ask his question, he and the Hunter jerked around to the sound of approaching hooves and the whine of carriage wheels. Sure enough, further down the path came a carriage, pulled by two enormous black horses. The closer it came, the more and more ominous the image became. 

The horses had more in common with corpses than proper steeds, their black fur mangled and torn, their eye sockets empty, their bones visible through their pathetic, rotting flesh. Still, they seemed to behave despite the lack of a driver, stopping so the carriage was right beside the Executioners. The carriage itself looked ancient, the wood worn with time and harsh weather, cobwebs acting as a macabre lace on the curtains. Curiously, the door to the carriage opened on its own, silently welcoming the pair inside. 

Any sense of bravado was lost at that moment. The Executioners shared a glance, a thousand unspoken words passing between them. Still, they had no choice in the matter; if they wanted to fulfill Master Logarius’ wishes, they had to proceed. 

Alfred took the first step inside the carriage, giving the Hunter help inside with a steadying hand on his arm. 

The door shut, trapping the pair inside. Not a second later, the horses set off at a gallop. Little did the poor beasts know, they were bringing Death and Destruction right to their mistress’s door.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, I'm not dead!! I might have said this before, but college is kicking my ass- writing this is really fun though, thanks to everyone waiting patiently for this update. I rewrote this chapter 3 times and am still uncertain with how it ended up, might rewrite it again... ah well, hope you enjoy it as it is!

Stepping out of the carriage, Alfred and the Hunter were only more perplexed to see that the bridge they had just rode across had long since crumbled away, and the horses that pulled the carriage had died long ago. Their corpses were rotted, covered in a layer of pure snow that hadn’t been disturbed even by crows. Inexplicably, the lanterns lighting the path to the castle were still lit, as if the oil was enchanted to never burn out.

For all their questions, there was nothing they could do but press on, even if now they were anxious as to how to return home after completing their quest. Ahead was an enormous entryway with a door that was even more massive than even the most grotesque beast the Hunter had faced against. 

“How horribly ostentatious,” Alfred muttered, walking forward. The door was far too large for anyone to lift up by themselves, it likely had some draw-bridge like mechanism to open it. Alfred began to search for any lever or similar device- when the damn thing lifted on its own, opening the path for the pair. 

The two Executioners shared a skeptical glance, weapons at the ready as they stepped through. Quickly, they assessed the frozen environment, spotting a few horrifically deformed… _things_ crawling around, their faces hidden behind curtains of snow white, tangled hair, their stomachs engorged with what one would assume was blood. The simple sight made the Hunter’s blood boil, and Alfred scowled with disgust.

“A fitting fate for the blood-crazed fiends,” he growled. “Ought we to slaughter the swollen monstrosities, or leave them to their shameful existence?”

The Hunter paused, thinking. “We have a limited number of supplies- let’s try to sneak past them and get into the castle without disturbing them, we don’t know how hungry they may be. Either way, they deserve whatever they get.”

Alfred nodded resolutely. “I value your wisdom, my friend.” He set his kirkhammer at the ready on his shoulder, just in case. “Lead the way.”

\---

The two just barely managed to evade the enormous claws of one of the bloodsuckers as they slipped into the castle, forcing the heavy oak doors shut behind them. After struggling to kill the first one, even while working together and going at it with everything they had, they decided it would be wisest to just run, consequences be damned. Which, in the end, was perhaps the best idea- they still had plenty of blood vials between the two of them. 

However, it would make trying to leave an interesting affair.

The Hunter, upon seeing that the frigid castle was empty, smiled to himself and immediately made his way forward, wanting to be done with this mess as soon as possible, but he was stopped by a firm, nearly painful, grip on his arm.

“Stop,” hissed Alfred, pulling his friend back closer to the door. “Listen.”

The Hunter did, straining his ears to hear whatever Alfred had picked up on. After a few moments, he heard it- sobbing. The sobbing of women, echoing off the stone walls, making it impossible to discern direction.

“We do not know what this accursed place has in store for us,” Alfred continued, his weapon once again at the ready. “We must be cautious.”

The Hunter only nodded, dread chilling his heart. To hear the sobs and screams of women but not see them… it was disturbing to say the least.

As they slowly progressed, they made quick work of any of the shrivelled, desperate servants that so frantically scrubbed the floors and walls. A simple visceral attack was all it would take, and to have such easy success after those vile bloodsuckers… It was a nice change of pace.

They made their way up the grandiose staircase, confused. The screams, the cries, they sounded so close, it was torture to hear and even more torturous to not see them as well.

Until finally the women uncloaked themselves.

Out of thin air, the spirits dozens of pale women materialized, not hesitating but a moment to strike at the Executioners with immense fury. Any fool would be able to figure out that they were the remnants of slaughtered Cainhurst nobility. They wore elegant dresses with ribbons and bows and bone ribbing, they all had long pale hair styled in braids and adorned with flowers. In life, the Hunter imagined they might have been described as pretty. But in death, they were horrifying, wielding jagged blades, the only color on their persons being a line of scarlet at their throats where they were killed. The faint outline of a blindfold still obscured their eyes, their wrists still bound together with rope.

The Executioners fought back with just as much conviction, finding with each kill they became more and more efficient. They were learning each other’s patterns and style, able to better match their techniques to defeat the masses with ease. When one was struck seriously enough to warrant a blood vial, the other doubled their efforts to cover for them. Sure, the ghosts were surprisingly resilient and could endure a considerable number of blows, but they soon all fell to the Executioners’ blades.

When the last of the ghosts were defeated, the Hunter wondered- would they stay gone? They’re ghosts, after all, being killed the first time clearly wasn’t enough. 

As if he could hear his thoughts, Alfred laughed, saying “The vile Queen was granted immortality thanks to their corrupted blood. But it would seem that nothing, from the most lowly servant to even their abandoned babes, stays truly dead here.” He converted his weapon back to its simple blade form, smiling to himself. “May their souls pass into whatever horrible nightmare they have earned, but if they choose to stay here… then may we make _this_ their nightmare.”

The Hunter nodded, grinning back. Some part of him still thought that this, on some level, was wrong. He didn’t know what these women did to deserve this, but still, Alfred spoke with such conviction, he knew more about the Vilebloods than the Vilebloods themselves, most likely. So surely there was justification for this?

The locket thumped against his chest as they continued their progress through the castle, entering a room to the left of the grand staircase. Alfred constantly glanced over his shoulder, weapons at the ready, stoic as the statues that littered the landscape. The Hunter wanted to poke fun at him as they glanced around the room, which seemed to be a dining room- long wooden tables piled with golden candelabras and silver platters and utensils, benches stacked uselessly on the far wall as if to stop the Executioners all those years ago. Strangely, some of the candles still flickered with light, and the air was deathly still and silent, heavy with the legacy of the castle.

The Hunter took in a breath to crack a joke, when Alfred hissed a sharp _‘shh!’_ to silence him, and they froze in the middle of the room. 

The tiny specks of flame died suddenly, and without warning, the ghostly forms of more slaughtered women stepped forth from the walls, attacking the cornered Executioners with countless shrill shrieks, a sound so mortifying it could stop a less skilled hunter in their tracks.

The Hunter was completely caught off guard, and before he could even stumble backwards, the ghost before him drove her blade deep within his shoulder. He bit back a shout of pain with tremendous effort, feeling the blade strike bone and tear through layers of muscle, scorching hot blood soaking his coat and spattering on his face when she violently pulled the blade back out. 

Fueled by the pain, the Hunter made quick work of the woman who attacked him. Alfred, meanwhile, fought against the women behind him, fighting defensively and striking every time one of the women left an opening for him. As such, he was far too occupied with his own attackers to warn his friend to calm down before continuing to fight.

Fighting with passion and conviction is a great thing- but to fight with blind anger only leaves one open for injury. A lesson the Hunter was soon to learn.

Having killed the woman who first hit him with a few mighty swings, the Hunter was completely oblivious to the other woman still on his side of the room, providing her the chance to dash forward and bury her own blade into his side. He swore he felt an organ burst at the end of her blade, and fell to his knees with a strangled cry.

Alfred, thank the Gods, had finished taking care of the ghosts who attacked him with only minor wounds to show for it, and was able to leap to the Hunter’s aid, slamming the head of his kirkhammer into the women’s torsos, sending them falling backwards. It gave the Hunter just enough time to scramble to his feet and jab a blood vial into his leg. 

In a few brief moments, his organs knit themselves back together, the internal bleeding came to a sluggish stop, but the wound in his shoulder still throbbed painfully and bled. 

Sobbing for the last time, the last of the six women fell to Alfred’s holy sword, and Alfred rushed to the Hunter. “My friend, you must take more blood,” he said, gesturing to the dark, wet stain growing larger and larger with each passing second. 

“I’m fine,” the Hunter lied with a wince. “I don’t want to waste blood vials on something so minor- we need to save our supplies for facing the Queen, right?”

Alfred nodded before pulling out a blood vial from his own pack; the Hunter was not even given a chance to ask what he was doing before it was injected into his wounded arm. 

Being injected by someone else was a strange sensation, to say the least- the initial pinch of the needle piercing flesh much sharper, and the ensuing warms and comfort of skin closing around a wound that much more satisfying. Still, the Hunter jolted back, confused. 

“What the hell was that for?”

“My apologies, I figured you would refuse if I were to offer,” Alfred explained, smiling oh so disarmingly. “I still have a few vials to spare, I hardly think I will use all of mine on my own, so why not share?”

The Hunter knew that logic was solid, and that he would have refused a vial if offered, so was unable to be more than just slightly agitated with his partner. “Okay, fine, you’re right, just- I’ll try to be more careful next time.”

“Indeed, I should hope so. To attack with a clear mind is to promise victory, and the moment you allow yourself and your motivations to grow muddled, it allows the enemy to gain the upper hand. I mean no offense, but given that I am both a more experienced hunter and executioner both, perhaps I should lead the charge?”

The Hunter agreed. “Yeah, I’ll follow your command, and I won’t let myself be so blindsided again.”

“Good. The last thing I need is for you to suffer so at the hands of these horrible sinners.” Alfred clasped the Hunter on the shoulder before leading him out of the room, and the two continued on with much greater caution than before.


	8. Chapter 8

They had no idea how much time had passed. Not that time even mattered during the Hunt, but seconds and minutes and hours still moved at the same rate even if the moon never moved in the sky. Still, it took a hell of a lot longer to navigate the damned castle than either of them had anticipated. It hardly helped that around every corner were more servants and weeping women to slaughter, and some really knew how to put up a fight. The Hunter had to travel back to the Dream to restock on blood vials, which again slowed their progress, but it was better to be safe than sorry. After all, if Master Logarius himself was unable to kill the queen of the Vilebloods, it would be a difficult battle to say the least. 

“The Executioners before us really did a thorough job, huh,” the Hunter said with an exhausted laugh as they encountered yet another blocked off passageway. 

“Indeed,” Alfred sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. “They wanted to ensure no one could join the ranks of the Vilebloods; it would only make sense that they would make the throne room inaccessible.”

“Then we’ll just have to get creative.”

Having explored most all of Yharnam and finding all sorts of strange hidden areas, the Hunter had developed a knack for spotting alternative routes, even if they seemed insane. He had thrown himself off of a platform into an inky black abyss only to find the original Hunter’s Workshop, tucked away in the cathedral. He destroyed a pile of coffins to access a sewer system where he found his current garb. He broke down a pile of crates and navigated a strange catwalk and encountered Eileen for the first time. In short, discovering strange ways to get around obstacles was one of his talents.

Gesturing for Alfred to follow him, they continued to scout around the library, kicking aside the corpses of the servants they had cut down minutes before. Every single route in the castle led to this library, so there was no way in hell it could be a dead end. No, there had to be some way to get to the throne room from there.

After circling the room one more time, the Hunter found a potential ticket, an open window. He poked his head out and was absolutely thrilled at what was below- a couple of ledges that led to an extended balcony. Surely that had to lead somewhere good?

Gesturing for Alfred to follow, the Hunter quickly explained his discovery before clambering out the window and dropping gently onto the first ledge. Alfred, far more cautiously and slowly, followed suit. 

First, they searched the room that led out to the balcony, effortlessly slaughtering the spirits who still resided there, as well as the tortured servant who stood guard for all those years. 

The room was dimly lit, even more so than the others they had explored thus far. The only source of light was the opening of the door and the scant moonlight that filtered through the clouds. The Hunter had to strike up his torch just to be able to see the wall across from him. Not that there was much they hadn’t already come across.

From floor to ceiling, there were nothing but books. Evidently this room was some sort of continuation of the library. Nothing too notable, really, save for a chest tucked in the far corner of the room, which they both immediately went to inspect.

The Hunter opened it first, and was perplexed to find it full to the brim with clothing, of all things. He carefully took out each article of clothing, which were evidently all part of the same ensemble- ornate, frilly, and heavy with intricate goldwork, it was quite obviously the clothes of some deceased noble. And, funnily enough, they looked to be about his size.

Alfred looked at the garb with disdain, and before he could make a cutting remark about the garish nature of the Vilebloods, the Hunter tossed off his overcoat to replace it with the heavily gilded one, ignoring the smell of dust.

“I think it rather suits me,” he said, making a show of turning this way and that.

Alfred couldn’t help but to laugh. “This is a serious mission, and yet you find the time to crack jokes?”

“This isn’t a joke,” which was not a total lie. The garb, while overly fancy indeed, still appealed to some part of the Hunter who once longed for wealth and a life of ease. And he had to admit… it was rather pretty. “I think it looks a hell of a lot better than my tattered clothes.”

“Take that nonsense off or I shall take it off of you myself,” Alfred threatened, meaning for it to be nothing more than a teasing remark.

The Hunter swallowed back the sudden surge of emotion that he would _very much like to ignore_ and simply took off the garb, glad Alfred couldn’t see the color rising in his face. 

Alfred continued to explore the room while the Hunter carefully folded the clothes and placed them back into the chest, whereupon he came across something far more valuable than the clothes of some silly nobleman. He gasped in both shock and delight, excited to show his friend what he had discovered.

When the Hunter stood back up to face Alfred, he found himself not looking at the handsome visage of his companion who wielded a kirkhammer, but a proud figure wearing a strange, conical, gold helmet with a massive carriage wheel hoisted on his shoulder. 

Thrilled at the discovery, Alfred paraphrased the history and symbolism of the two items he now held, the gold ardeo and Logarius’ wheel, as well as demonstrating exactly how to fight with the wheel. It seemed like a horribly cumbersome weapon, leaving the user open to many an attack, but the damn thing had been so steeped in the blood and ire of the Vilebloods that it could cast a powerful spell and call forth the lingering anger in a brilliant display of magic. As for the gold ardeo- no Executioners after those who raided Cainhurst Castle donned them, as it was associated solely with the hunting of Vilebloods, not with the defending of Yharnam.

“Surely this must be fate,” Alfred speculated aloud, resting his weight against the massive wheel. “Not only was it fate for us to meet so we could fulfill our respective destinies, it was fate for one of my lost brothers to have his holy relics abandoned here so I may carry on where he fell.” His head jerked up to face the Hunter directly, and the effect was disturbing to say the least. “Let us continue, my friend. We have a queen to dethrone.”

\---

Alfred would never question the faith he placed in his companion, but he was beginning to question whether they would find where Master Logarius hid the queen.

The Hunter had taken them on a crazy trek all around the castle, ending with them clambering around on rooftops for some unknown reason. Alfred would never question his friend; after all, this was undoubtedly a route to somewhere, but he doubted if the entryway to the throne room would be found on a rooftop. The Hunter insisted that this had to be it; either they would find their way on the roofs, or they would have hit a dead end and have to go home empty handed, something which Alfred would rather avoid.

They wound up on a bridge-like structure that connected a spire to a platform up ahead, stumbling across the corpse of a hunter propped up against the railing of the bridge. Without pause, the Hunter looted the corpse for blood vials and coldblood, while Alfred stood back and waited with barely contained enthusiasm. That was the first sign he’d seen that this bizarre journey was actually leading them somewhere.

Climbing up the ladder (the Hunter went first on account of Alfred’s clunky helmet slowing him somewhat), they were greeted with a confusing sight. The ladder led to yet another rooftop, but this one had a grand arch that led to something obscured by the incessant snowfall. And there was an air of such finality. It was hard to explain or rationalize, but something about this new area felt important.

Weapons at the ready, they walked through the arch, just able to make out the shape of something beyond the snow. A human form, slouched on what looked to be a throne…

“Master Logarius!” Alfred took off dashing to his master, the Hunter hot on his heels. Excitement and adoration swelled in Alfred’s heart as he ran, while a deep anxiety grew in his stomach. He had no idea if his master was still even properly alive or if his entire consciousness was sacrificed to keep away Vilebloods, if the great Logarius was a true martyr and the figure on the throne before them was nothing but the remains; he knew nothing except that there was the man he idolized and whose words guided his life.

The pair stopped dead in their tracks when they got close enough to see that Logarius was a mostly decayed corpse, his eye sockets long since empty. 

Alfred’s shoulders slumped ever so slightly, and the Hunter felt his heart drop, trying to come up with something to say for his beloved partner.

Then, the corpse _moved_.

Its fingers cracked from their frozen position, the sound of the ice snapping off the digits like bones breaking. Its shoulders slowly rolled forward, reaching out for the rusted staff, groaning and growling all the while.

The howling of the wind seemed to fall completely silent as it continued to jerk its joints free of the ice and snow, and it lurched forward onto its feet. The first few steps it took towards the pair were clumsy, relying heavily upon the staff, but its movements soon became disturbingly fluid.

“Master,” Alfred gasped, his voice trembling in awe. He was as frozen as the corpse was moments before, both of them were. They only regained control of their bodies when Master Logarius swung his scythe-like staff down, intending to strike them down with righteous fury.

“Master! I’m a fellow Executioner!” Alfred shouted over the wind, dodging to the right while the Hunter leapt to the left. “Master, _please,_ we’re here to help! We’re here to kill the queen!”

Logarius continued his assault, waving his staff in such a way as to conjure the snarling, skeletal faces of the Vilebloods he had cut down all those years ago, the faces hurtling at Alfred. He only barely managed to roll out of the way.

“He’s not alive,” the Hunter yelled to Alfred. “He can’t be reasoned with- all he knows is that-” he had to swiftly dodge out of the way of a massive spell launched at him, taking a shot at the man whose philosophies he dedicated himself to. “-we’re intruders!”

Alfred’s posture changed immediately when the Hunter’s words sunk in. He stopped cowering and dodging like a frightened child, straightening his shoulders and readying the wheel. He cast a quick glance at the Hunter and the two nodded in silent understanding before immediately beginning their assault.

Logarius had not yet been canonized as a true martyr.

It became their job to make that so.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Per the usual, this was rushed and not proof read in the slightest so if I make an error, please comment so I can fix it and not embarrass myself too much. Thanks!

Not even a full second after the Hunter called out to Alfred, he bore the brunt of one of Logarius’ spells, knocked off his feet and tumbling backwards. 

Alfred took advantage of the moment- while Master Logarius was occupied with the Hunter, he lunged forward, hefting the wheel above his head before slamming it into his master’s skeletal torso. 

The Executioner was horrifyingly satisfied at the ensuing crunch of bones beneath the wheel, but knew he had to be cautious. A relentless assault would just leave him open to attack and exhausted, so he resisted the urge to bludgeon his own master to death right then and there.

Thus began a pattern with the pair. One would draw Logarius’ attention, risking getting hit with his brutal spells or his twisted sword so the other could strike a handful of times before switching positions. The Hunter especially favored the offensive position, able to move much faster than Alfred, though hated the guilt that built up in his chest with each swing of his axe. Master Logarius groaned and growled in pain like any living man would, his chest rising and falling with his labored breath. He was nothing but a shell of his former self, but he was still so human in how he moved and breathed, it was deeply disturbing.

But the pattern was soon broken by Logarius lifting his scythe above his head, then slamming it into the ground, wisps of dark energy swirling around his form. His head was lowered as if in prayer, seemingly unperturbed by the darkness that surrounded him. 

The Hunter and Alfred, both, saw this as nothing more than a respite in the battle- perhaps they had fatigued their master to the point of exhaustion? Regardless, the pause was one they were eager to take advantage of, both hacking and slashing at their master blindly.

Suddenly, a burst of energy shot out from Logarius, launching both hunters away from him, the blast like being struck by freezing cold lightning. A thunderous roar filled their ears, a bright red light blinding them both as the enormous magic blast pushed them away. Alfred slammed into one of the decorative steeples, his arm pulled from its socket with a painful snap as he tried to keep a hold of his weapon. His cry of pain was swallowed by the howling wind. He barely had enough time to use a blood vial by the time the attacks resumed.

The Hunter, meanwhile, managed to stay mostly upright, balancing uneasily by driving his axe’s blade into the roof tiles, letting it act as an anchor to keep him from falling completely down.

They had to adapt immediately after that- Logarius leapt up with an inhuman strength, levitating in the air for a brief moment before slamming back into the ground, striking at the pair with a smooth, arcing slice from his scythe, the blade growing a bright red. Alfred managed to lunge out of the way, while the Hunter was unfortunate to get slashed across the chest, his flesh _burning_ where the steel came in contact with his body. 

With that, Logarius drew a second weapon, a curved sword, and continued his attacks with renewed speed and vigor. 

Gritting his teeth and quickly jabbing a blood vial into his stomach, the Hunter carried on with the battle. Alfred continued to draw Logarius’ attention, having to risk quite a few hits from the sword in the process, but he would take being hit over allowing the Hunter to be so wounded yet again.

Every few hits, Logarius would either repeat the same levitating attack or swipe at the hunters with the scythe and sword, always punctuating his melee attacks with yet another burst of burning magic. But with the two of them, they could manage, and they did. 

Before long, they subdued their beloved master, Alfred landing the final blow with the wheel, crushing the frail bones with one well aimed blow. 

With a final, strangled shout of pain, Logarius collapsed to the ground, nothing more than a broken, withered corpse. 

Both Executioners stood still for a moment, breathing heavily, afraid to move lest the corpse leap to life once again. 

Alfred was the first to finally break the spell, laughing weakly to himself, barely more than a breathy wheeze. With each gasp of air, his laughter grew louder, and it was a sound that sent a feverish chill down the Hunter’s spine. It wasn’t like his normal laughter, which was warm and genuine and kind; no, it was twisted, and manic, and just _wrong_.

“You put up quite the fight, Master,” he said, his laughter finally dying down. “You very nearly extinguished the last flickering flames of our order! But no matter, Master,” he knelt down, picking the crown off the withered skull of their Master. 

The skull that once possessed the lips that spoke such profound ideas and inspired dozens of brave people to fight, the skull that once smiled sagely down at initiates to welcome them into the order. 

Yet Alfred seemed not to realize this, or perhaps he did and did not care, as he removed the crown and held it aloft, inspecting it in the scant moonlight that trickled through the clouds. “We two shall become a fire that will burn down this entire castle, just wait.”

He turned to the Hunter, who was unsure what to do or say. This was not the Alfred he loved, this man felt like a total stranger to him, _it was wrong_. Some primal part of his brain was begging the Hunter to leave, but he knew that his friend was simply hurting and in the same throes of insanity as he was in the beginning of the Hunt. He wouldn’t abandon Alfred, not like this. 

He swore to be there for him, to be by his side, no matter what. 

Alfred wordlessly plucked the hat off of the Hunter’s head, and it took all of the Hunter’s willpower not to flinch away as it was replaced with the crown. Yet his touch was so tender and gentle, the back of his hand pressing oh so softly against the Hunter’s cheek once the rather large crown was perched precariously upon his head. It was so tempting to close his eyes against the world and focus only on that touch, that little reassurance that Alfred was still himself, just not in the right mind. 

“My handsome king,” the elder executioner began with more broken chuckling, “would you be so kind as to lead the way?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: minor grammar thing and I realized I accidentally wrote a certain event out of order... don't copy paste phrases you think are cool willy nilly, kids


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Per the usual, this was not beta read or edited, so do alert me if there is any egregious spelling or grammar errors. As well, this chapter has a brief, nongraphic discussion of suicide- I tagged it anyways just to be safe. If such a thing will upset you, do skip this chapter for your safety, or at least skip the second portion. Also, let me know if this ought to be divided into two chapters for the sake of readability!

Taking a deep breath, trying to hide his shivering against both the cold and Alfred’s tone of voice, the Hunter silently walked ahead, towards the throne that their Master sat upon not five minutes ago. After all, forwards was the only way he could go- he just had to hope there was some hidden entrance to the throne room.

Lo and behold, there was. 

The winds whipped violently, and the entire world _shifted_ , the ground rumbling and shaking for a few agonizing moments until, finally everything settled again. When they were finally able to see what lay ahead again, it wasn’t the empty wall that had been there seconds ago. Rather, the wall was replaced with an entire new section of the castle, a tall and grandiose edifice with still burning torches all along the exterior. 

Alfred gasped, in delight or shock, the Hunter couldn’t tell. Regardless, the Hunter continued to lead, walking shakily through the uncovered threshold. He carefully removed the crown, thinking it a tasteless thing to kill a queen while wearing a symbol of her husband, even if she was a violation of all the Hunter had sworn himself to.

He ran his thumb over the chain of his locket, then that of the amulet, hoping the familiar texture would ease some of his anxiety. This should be a joyous occasion, right? They were close to accomplishing what countless Executioners, even their own Master, were unable to do before. Alfred’s life’s work was nearly complete, and then they could go on to end the nightmare of the Hunt, once and for all. So why was he so frightened? Sure, Alfred was acting strangely, but killing the man you admired all your life is sure to leave someone in an unstable state of mind. 

Shaking his head free of his worries, the Hunter continued into the revealed throne room, immediately struck by how ostentatious it was. The staircase at the very front was flanked on either side with statues of knights on horseback, each with their lances at the ready for war. A blood red carpet led the Executioners directly to their target.

There, across the massive, heavily decorated throne room, was the queen upon her throne, sat solemnly beside the empty seat of her king. While the chamber seemed quite fit for royalty, the queen herself looked more like a pathetic prisoner, wearing a tattered nightgown, her face clad in a wretched iron mask. Her body was as pale as the snow, her arms as thin as the blade of a rapier. 

She lifted her face with surprising elegance- the Hunter had genuinely expected her neck to snap under the weight of a solid metal mask. Her voice floated out from beneath the metal, airy yet commanding as they approached. 

“Ah, visitors. We recognize thine uniform, Executioner. We presume the moon-scented Hunter is among thine ranks as well? Well, We shall not-”

Before she could finish her statement, Alfred rushed forward and wrapped his hand around her frail throat. He was breathing heavily, his shoulders rising and falling visibly, and his words had more in common with growling than human language.

“How can something as vile and pathetic as you defeat my Master?” he wondered aloud, so close to the queen that his ardeo was nearly touching her face. “I will give you a chance to answer my question- use this opportunity wisely.” He loosened his grip somewhat and stood further back, allowing the queen to speak with the threat of strangling her still very real.

She drew a trembling breath, lifting her head defiantly. “Because he and all thine kind are impudent-”

Alfred tightened his hold of her, his grip easily enough to bruise, before throwing her to the ground with enough force to break bones. If the queen were yet human, she would have cried out in pain or shock, but instead she bore the fall with a quiet grace, sighing as if bored. 

_That_ set the Executioner off.

The Hunter wanted to say it was like the flick of a switch, that Alfred’s actions were unexpected and his violence was sudden. But he knew better, he had seen firsthand just how viciously he had slaughtered their master. He dreaded witnessing the revenge Alfred would exact, so he stayed further back, averting his eyes. 

“I won’t ask again,” Alfred said, far too calmly, the Logarius Wheel at the ready. He placed it on her thin, frail leg, applying barely a third of his body weight against it, but it was enough to make her squirm. “How did you defeat my Master and my brothers? Speak, you unclean wench!”

“Our life is not so easily forfeit,” she spat. “Enough of this, there is naught a mortal man can do to bury Us.”

“Bury you?” The Hunter swore he could see the bloodthirsty smile in the breathlessness of Alfred’s words. “No, I have something much more fitting in mind for your disgusting, perverted flesh.”

He lifted the wheel up to the level of his chest, then slammed it down as hard as he could, making sure the edge of the rim was the sole part of the wheel that came in contact with her leg. There was an ear-splitting crack as the queen’s femur snapped in half, an enormous blood stain blooming on her dress from the wound. 

Yet she did not cry out, merely gasping for air.

It went on for so long.

The Hunter couldn’t bear to watch, yet couldn’t leave either. He was frozen, staring down at the bloodstained carpet, forced to listen to each repeated blow dealt to Annalise. She was still so human, so sane. She was capable of talking to them, capable of reason and kindness and cruelty and everything that any other person can do. She deserved it, the Hunter knew, Alfred had explained that the Vilebloods are ultimately to blame for the beastly scourge, but it was still so hard to watch.

With each successive hit, Alfred systematically bludgeoned Annalise until she could no longer move, no longer remain conscious. 

He didn’t stop until the queen was reduced to truly nothing but blood, shards of bone, and mashed organs spread across her throne. 

The Hunter cautiously approached Alfred, who’s laughter only grew as he beheld his handiwork. The Executioner dropped the wheel, lifted his arms out as if to give a sermon. 

“Master, look, I’ve done it, I’ve done it! I’ve smashed and pounded and grounded this rotten siren into a fleshy pink pulp! There, you vile monstrosity,” he barked, his voice ragged from shouting and cackling. “What good’s your immortality now? Try stirring up trouble in this sorry state- all mangled and tangled, with every inside on the outside for all the world to see!” He continued his hysterics, nearly toppling over from both the force of his laughter and the sudden wave of exhaustion washing over his body.

The Hunter was right there to hold him upright, ignoring the gore smeared all down Alfred’s front. Gingerly, he removed Alfred’s filthy ardeo, setting it gently on a clean section of the carpet. He wanted to say something, wanted to know what violent soul possessed his sweet and thoughtful Executioner, wanted to know what he could do to help Alfred be himself again, wanted to assure him that he still loved him all the same, but the words all died in his throat when he saw that familiar smile.

“Thank you,” Alfred breathed, “Thanks to you, I’ve finally done it! Well?” He shakily raised an arm, gesturing at the viscera behind them. “Isn’t it beautiful? Now our Master can be canonized a true martyr!”

“It’s wonderful,” the Hunter agreed quietly, focusing only on Alfred’s emerald eyes, disturbed by how it seemed that Alfred was looking through him, not at him. “But I don’t want to lose you to the bloodshed. Hey,” he gently took hold of Alfred’s chin, forcing him to really look him in the eyes. “Let’s head home, you need to rest.”

Alfred blinked owlishly, but at least his gaze was clear, and the smile finally fell from his face. That, that was the face of the man he knew. His features were soft and relaxed, an intelligent glimmer dancing in his emerald eyes, his face clean of all blood and gore. It was relieving to see. “Are you cross with me?”

“No, why would I be? You’ve done what you set out to do, you’ve rid the world of an impure force. But we do need to go home.”

Something clicked in Alfred’s mind, and gradually he became more and more himself. “Ah, yes, this was part of an agreement. Well, you’ve fulfilled your end better than I could have ever dreamt, now it is my turn.”

\---

They sat silently across from one another in Alfred’s living room. The Hunter cleaned and sharpened his weapons, Alfred simply stared down in his hands in thought. Neither had spoken much since returning to Yharnam. Unspoken words and confessions were heavy in the air, a strange anxiety deep in both their stomachs. 

Despite all the beasts and blood and gore, somehow the most daunting part of the entire Hunt was simply communicating their feelings. 

Alfred was the first to break the silence with a heavy sigh. “What would you do if I were gone?”

The Hunter snapped his head up, his attention ripped from his axe. He looked Alfred in the eyes, trying to see if he could see any visible changes in his pupils. Surely his friend wasn’t falling to beasthood, he scarcely used blood at all! “How do you mean, ‘gone’?”

“I had something of a plan, you see,” Alfred began. “This was prior to my meeting you, my motivations have since changed, but the idea is still deeply rooted in my mind akin to a weed.” 

Alfred continued on as the Hunter remained silent, his voice low and quiet, as if confessing his sins before a priest. “Ever since I was first sworn into the brotherhood, I had planned on helping Master Logarius complete his martyrdom. As well… I had wanted to join him. I wanted to die after he was properly honored, and if I did not die naturally, then my own hand would suffice.” 

A sudden, deep chill permeated the Hunter’s entire being, his blood, his heart, his stomach, his mind, his bones. He began to shake and shiver, struggling to keep his voice even. “Alfred-”

“I know you asked my help, dear Hunter, but you-”

“Alfred,” he repeated again, not as calm as he would like. It was enough to stop the Executioner from speaking, so the Hunter took his chance. “You are the last true Executioner. If you want the brotherhood, the philosophies, the stories to stay alive, then you have to as well. And, and damn it, I care about you, you’re the only friend I have in this world! I would be devastated if you left, hell, I have no idea what I would do! I _need_ you,” he pleaded, tears stinging his eyes, all logic gone from his mind in favor of raw emotion. “Alfred, I know I'm a selfish man. I need you here with me, okay? Promise me, _please promise me_ you’ll stay alive. I-” he cut himself off, the scrap of reason in his mind screaming at him to STOP before he finished that dreaded three-word sentence. “Please.”

Alfred’s eyes were wide, and damn it all, he couldn’t help but smile. “Of course. I swear to you, my dear, I will stay alive. I shan’t dream of leaving you alone. After all, I agreed to help you not because I saw you as a tool to help me fulfill my destiny as an Executioner, but because I did want to be your friend, and still do. As silly as it may sound, I wanted to be to you what our Master is for me: a guide and a mentor. You were just so frightened, and you have progressed and grown into a most fearsome hunter- I figured you have no more use for me now that you have become so strong in your own right.”

The Hunter shook his head in disbelief. “I’m only so capable in battle because I have you! Do you really think I could have slain all those ghosts in Cainhurst without someone to watch my back?”

“You yet have the ability to learn from even fatal mistakes, surely you could adapt to fighting alone.” At the furious glare he earned, Alfred laughed, a sound of exhaustion and surrender. “Still, my word is my bond. I have promised you to stay both in this world and at your side, so stay I shall.

“So,” Alfred stood from his seat, stretching his still sore muscles, “ought we get to ending the Hunt?”

The Hunter opened the locket, looking back down at the handsome faces within. “I suppose we should rest here a little while more before heading out.”

Alfred cocked his head, sitting back down gently. “For all the times I have seen you open your locket, you have never told me who it is you have a picture of.”

The Hunter’s face grew hot, and he slid the necklace off, passing the locket to Alfred. “That’s because I don’t know. But they feel so familiar… I need to finish the Hunt to see them again. At least, that’s what I’ve been telling myself.”

Alfred’s brow furrowed as he looked at pictures. Evidently, whoever these people were, they were wealthy. That didn’t bother him as much as the fact that both portraits were framed with black enamel, and the locket itself was held in place by black beads set into the chain. Most damning of all, a small white lily, also of enamel, was set beneath each respective portrait.

_It was a memento locket._

And the Hunter didn’t even know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, the Hunter and Alfred teleport back to Yharnam via the lanterns. I read a fic a loooong time ago where, if both the Hunter and a second party are willing, the Hunter can bring someone else into the Dream too, so I decided to use that. Didn't include it because god this is long enough


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this is anti climactic, I just really wanted to finally end this poor fic after so many months of it being a WIP. It's a little bizarre- this is the first ever fic I've published, let alone completed. So, I hope you all have enjoyed it thus far, and that you are satisfied with the conclusion, it's been a hell of a ride. Per the usual this has not been edited, so I may come back and clean it up later? But for now, this is how it be.

He wished he didn’t tell the Hunter about the locket. It was his sole motivation for seeing the Hunt through to the end- the chance to find his past again. Alfred, essentially, tore away the Hunter’s last chance at a normal life, all by telling him that the faces in the locket were long since dead. 

Yet, the Hunter pressed on. He hardly even took a minute to let the reality of his situation sink in before announcing he would end the Hunt anyways, and worry about the future when he got there. 

“My past is gone,” he said, “I can’t keep fighting for people I don’t remember and a life I don’t even know I had. I’m going to bring about the end of this damned night so we can both finally see what tomorrow holds.”

Alfred doubted anyone, alive or dead, possessed the strength the Hunter had in that moment, and was genuinely honored to be this man’s friend.

But now he was alone, and desperately trying to find ways to occupy his mind.

“Do not fret over things you cannot control- to do so is painfully human, yes, but it preoccupies the mind. So long as you have created the chance for success, and have done so with your greatest effort, there is no need to feel such fear.”

Alfred repeated the words of his Master over and over again as he waited for his friend’s return, hoping it would do something to calm his frayed nerves.

And yet, he was still terrified.

He truly did everything he could. He fulfilled his end of the agreement, but by the Cosmos, the things he saw…

How the hell did the Hunter persist through so much, when Alfred felt as though his reality was falling apart, the very cobblestones beneath his feet crumbling away into nothingness? He had only been a witness to a fraction of the horrors the Hunter had seen and was still unable to comprehend any of it.

He accompanied the Hunter to Bygenwerth, thinking it would be so simple. A few stray scholars to fight, perhaps, some particularly nasty beasts, but nothing more than that. And at first, it seemed to be that way. Sure, the strange insectoid monsters were unusual, but perhaps such perverted forms were the result of the particularly powerful strain of corrupt blood that spread through the college all those years ago.

As for the bizarre millipede-like creature, towering at a story tall and possessing the otherworldly ability to summon fireballs, well, Alfred was mortified initially. He remembered hearing tales of a similar sort of beast living in the catacombs beneath Yharnam, but never did he imagine he would face off against one.

The Hunter, meanwhile, was completely unbothered. He simply dove headfirst into battle, expertly dancing around the grasping, sinewy arms of the insects, dexterously dodging out of the way of the acidic regurgitation of the celestial centipede, all without so much as flinching. His ferocity was incredible, leaving Alfred in awe at how easily he was able to look such demonic things in the eye and not so much as blink. 

His astonishment only grew when they stood upon the balcony of the college, staring out upon the massive lake. 

Gods, he wished that the ineffable spidery abomination they slew at the bottom of the lake was the last of it. But no, the moon itself was stained with the blood they shed that night, and it seemed a barrier was broken between the world of sanity and humanity and the realm of chaos and true horror.

Alfred was unsure how much the human mind could take, but at some point, he must have surpassed his limit. One moment, they were at the bottom of the lake in Byrgenwerth, him cradling the unconscious body of his friend as the blood moon sunk low, and the next moment, they were in what appeared to be a central plaza of a city he had never seen before. The scent of rot and decay and burnt flesh was heavy in the air, thick enough to make Alred choke and sputter. He was perplexed to find his body and weapon were coated in dark, almost green, viscera, yet had no memory of a fight.

Wordlessly, he followed the Hunter up a flight of stairs, entering a dark room that was filled with corpses. They were dressed in the garb of scholars, strange hexagonal cages and all, seated around the room as if prepared for a lecture. One skeleton, however, was placed nearly in the center, seated alone. The Hunter approached this corpse and knelt down to inspect it for a moment, his hand reaching out to brush its arm, before abruptly yanking his hand away. 

When he turned back to Alfred, his expression was steely, yet his eyes were damp with unshed tears.

“Alfred, I- thank you,” he said simply, his voice trembling ever so slightly. “I would never have gotten so close to breaking the cycle if you hadn’t agreed to help me. Yharnam will forever be changed thanks to you. But,” he glanced back at the skeleton, holding back a shudder of fear, “I will have to finish this alone.”

Alfred wanted to know why, but he knew he could never understand. So instead, covered in grime that stunk of sewage and blood, he embraced the Hunter and wished him well. 

“I promised you I would stay alive- I want you to promise me the same,” the Executioner whispered, holding back his burning questions. 

The Hunter mutely nodded, returning the embrace. “Wait for me outside the chapel.” 

And with that, he turned his attention back on the skeletal form of the deceased scholar, reaching out again. With a deep sigh, he suddenly vanished from view, gone into another one of the Dreamscapes. 

“Do not fret over things you cannot control,” Alfred repeated yet again, before cringing and remembering his Master and the Queen.

He had fallen into a bloodlust that he thought only beasts could experience. He had fantasized for countless nights about helping his Master complete his martyrdom, and what he had done in the castle was far from it. He wanted to be clean, elegant, and sophisticated in the execution of the last Vileblood, not to stoop to their levels and take delight in the bloodshed. 

Killing his own Master had left him… wrong. Not broken, no, he was indeed still whole of mind and spirit, but it twisted him in a way he hadn’t anticipated. He very nearly became just another corrupted hunter, sick and blinded with the insatiable hunger for blood. Only the Hunter’s gentle touch and grounding words could bring him down from that horrible high.

Oh Gods, what would he do should the Hunter never return? 

“To do so is painfully human, yes-”

He promised he wouldn’t make a martyr of himself, and he would never dream of going back on a promise. So, should the Hunter perish, he would not provide himself that oh so tempting escape from reality. 

“-but it preoccupies the mind. So long as you have created the chance for success-”

But the Hunter was of the Dream, so surely he could not die until the Hunt was complete? Rather, he would resurrect time and time again, from what Alfred understood, and the cycle of resurrection wouldn’t cease until he fulfilled his purpose as a hunter. So, then, Alfred didn’t need to be anxious over the Hunter’s well being- he still worried about his friend suffering such pain and death over and over, but he was comforted knowing that the Hunter could endure.

“-and have done so with your greatest effort-”

How does time in the Dreamscapes work? Sometimes, when the Hunter would disappear to the Dream, it would be only seconds before he returned with clean, modified weaponry and new supplies, ready to take on the threats of the Hunt. Other times, nearly an hour would pass, and when asked what he had been doing, the Hunter would become confused and say something like, “I just needed to buy more blood vials, it only took a minute.” How long would it take, then, for him to end the Hunt? How long would it take to return to this world? Alfred could very well wind up little more than a ghost, haunting the Cathedral for years to come, waiting for a companion who may not return to the waking world until Yharnam falls and a new city is built on top of the ruins. It had already been nearly two hours since he bid his friend goodbye- what if the Hunter became trapped in the Dreamscape? What if he failed his mission and could never escape?

“-there is no need to feel such fear.”

Alfred was sure he looked stark raving mad, repeating the same words over and over as he paced outside the Cathedral, but he hardly cared. He needed something, anything to occupy his mind, to calm him, at least to still his shaking hands and pounding heart and ease the guilt and regret.

\---

“Farewell, my keen hunter. Fear the blood.”

The last words Gehrman spoke to him rang in his ears, rattling around in the Hunter’s mind as he struggled to realize where he was, what had happened.

In the brief second after the execution, the Hunter was aware of his head being separated from his body and his corpse resting in the wildflowers of the Dream. But in the next moment, his body was whole again, his muscles heavy with exhaustion. He struggled for a moment to move, to think, even to just open his eyes and gain an awareness of his surroundings. He was so tired, even just the act of lifting his head was a trial… 

Slowly, though, he realized where he was- he was slumped against the well in the cathedral ward. With a groan, he struggled to his feet, weary and broken and so overwhelmed with emotion he became numb.

“Dear Hunter!” cried a familiar voice, and before the Hunter could turn to face Alfred, he was swept off his feet in a hug, his hat tumbling to the ground. The Hunter clung to him and struggled not to weep- even as Alfred set him back down upon his feet, he couldn’t bring himself to let go just yet.

They nearly lost each other too many times to count, and not once had neither Alfred nor the Hunter been honest to each other about their feelings. Alfred knew just how close he came to losing the Hunter forever, and didn’t want unspoken words to fuel regret and guilt later down the line. After all, the world as he knew it was dead- the only thing that remained of his life before his eyes were forced open was the Hunter. They were each other’s constant.

So, Alfred felt he owed it to the other man to be open and honest, for once.

“Good Hunter,” he hesitantly began, “I- I owe it to you to be truly candid, and hope that you shan’t think less of me for this.”

The Hunter, finally, let go of Alfred, taking a slight step back so he could look the Executioner in the eyes. Wearing an anxious smile, he said, “I hope you aren’t about to tell me you secretly hated me all along or something.”

“No, not at all,” Alfred laughed. “Quite the opposite, in fact.”

The Hunter’s heart skipped a beat as a light blush covered Alfred’s face and as the weight of his words slowly sunk in. 

“I care about you, more than I did for my holy quest. I- oh, I cannot imagine what I would have done if you did not return, and if I never told you how deeply I adore you. I know, we have only known each other a short time, perhaps just a week or two, but I, oh goodness, how to phrase it? I-”  
The Hunter cut him off with a brief kiss on the cheek to save Alfred the trouble of trying to articulate his thoughts. He was beyond delighted, but his fear for the future was still all too present, weighing down his heart even now. “I care about you too, Alfred, and I’m glad you waited for me. But, what do we do now?”

Alfred thought for a moment, his own smile falling. “Quite honestly, good Hunter, I do not know. Yharnam is all but dead; there truly is only us and the few you saved left.” 

The unexpected ringing of the chapel’s bell startled them both, the Hunter nearly drawing his weapon before realizing what the sound was. Alfred, meanwhile, was far from frightened- he was positively beaming, looking up at the dark sky that slowly grew lighter and lighter, a hint of blue replacing the inky blackness.

“We can decide where we go next and where we make our home later. For now, I want to enjoy the sunrise with you, after all this time.”

The two sat on the steps of the well, Alfred wrapping his arm around the Hunter’s shoulders, the Hunter resting his head against Alfred’s shoulder, watching the colors of the sky shift.

The Hunter had never seen something so beautiful. 

The sun slowly crept over the horizon, bathing the city in its glistening gold light, transforming all it touched. It was akin to a painting- the sky became a rich blue, the clouds above tinted pink and yellow, the sun’s rays reaching down to the city below, greeting the new day with warmth and light.

Alfred and the Hunter both knew that they could never live as they had once hoped. Their worlds as they knew it had not ended, precisely, as much as they had never really existed in the first place. All the hopes and dreams they possessed at the beginning of the night had been dashed, now buried with the countless dead of the city.

Yet, they still had each other.

And, resting together, encircled in each other’s arms, sitting in an ever growing pool of sunlight, they were enough.


End file.
